Interesting People

A couple of nights ago Studly Doright and I enjoyed dinner in a slightly upscale (for Tallahassee) restaurant. We’d ordered our meal, and Studly excused himself to go to the men’s room. In his absence I looked around the room and listened to the buzz of conversation going on around us.

I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, I promise; nevertheless, my ears couldn’t help but pick up the tale being told at the table just on the other side of an artfully arranged barrier between our table and one a few feet away.

At that unseen, but nearby table, one man was holding court, detailing an encounter he’d had with someone of note. I never quite heard who he’d met, but the oohs and ahhs from his fellow diners indicated he/she was pretty impressive.

The longer I eavesdropped, I mean, listened, though, the more I realized that regardless of who this man had met he’d have made them seem amazing. Maybe it was his daughter’s pre-K teacher. Perhaps he was talking about the cashier at his local grocery store. It appeared to my ears that it was the storyteller who was the fascinating person.

I don’t mean that in a negative way. He wasn’t a boor. He just had a way of holding everyone’s attention and making a story about something mundane come alive. My husband has that ability. When he gets into storytelling mode, people listen.

I only wish I could pull that off. When I launch into a tale chances are 99% of those at the table tune out by the fourth sentence. And that poor sucker who represents the 1% is either too kind or maybe too inebriated to lose interest.

When Studly returned to the table I shifted my attention to him.

“So,” I asked. “How was your day?”

As he began to regale me with his tales of a fascinatingly ordinary day, I pictured someone at another table listening to him with a smile. Knowing an interesting person is infinitely better than being one.

Peace, people.

The Great Revolutionary War Air Battle

Just when we think that trump can’t get any dumber he says or does something so imbecilic that the bar gets lowered another notch or two. On the Fourth of July he managed to take his stupidity to a whole ‘nother level. I’d say it’s the basement, but he’d just prove me wrong again.

For those who didn’t hear his speech at his big 4Th of July, multimillion dollar extravaganza , let me share a portion of it it with you here:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2019/07/04/independence-day-donald-trump-trips-up-revolutionary-war-history/1638531001/

The meme below says it all:

Yes, that’s right folks, we shut down those airports, thus winning the Revolutionary War.

As you might expect, the internet had a field day with Trump’s stupidity. Here are some of my favorites.

Leave it to General Washington, call signal Cherry Tree, to lead our forces from the air.

I wonder if the flight attendants had to ask passengers to place their electronics in airplane mode.

Or Newark, in a pinch.

Twitter had some of the best posts:

Of course Trump has blamed his gaffes on a TelePrompTer glitch. But didn’t he famously criticize his predecessor for using the TelePrompTer?

Seems like he also ridiculed Hillary Clinton for the same reason:

The truth is that Trump tends to go off script when he feels like his followers’ short attention spans are wandering. He’ll say whatever outrageous statements pop into his head just to rile them up. This week, it’s Revolutionary War airports. Next week, who knows? Martians invading through porta potties to help the North defeat the Confederacy? Hey, it could happen if the TelePrompTer goes out again.

Peace, people!

Snapshot #245

I’m calling this one, Fox, no Henhouse.

This little lady padded across my backyard yesterday morning. I tried to get a better shot, but this is it folks. My cats weren’t impressed, but they did watch her closely to make sure she didn’t try to steal anything belonging to them. I do love living in a forest.

Peace, people!

Hairy Situation

On Tuesday I had a haircut and color scheduled in Blountstown, but first I had to drive into Tallahassee for a few groceries. I knew that the Publix on Tennessee would have everything I needed, and it’s on my side of town, so I pulled in there. After gathering everything on my list, including some amazing tomatoes, I went to the checkout.

The young lady stationed at the register complimented me on my hair. I thanked her then told her I was scheduled for a trim that afternoon. All perfectly innocent, right? Wrong. The slightly older-than-me woman who came up behind me in the line began a rant aimed at me and women like me.

She began with a rueful laugh, “You modern women,” she sneered. “You think you can ignore God’s law.”

I’m sure my eyes grew large, but I continued with my transaction and smiled at her, hoping to calm her down.

She quoted 1 Corinthians 11:15 in a scary voice, saying, “But if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For her hair is given to her for a covering.”

“You have shamed yourself,” she cried. “God’s word is not negotiable.”

Now, I looked this woman in the eye and calmly said, “Ma’am, I’m a breast cancer survivor.”

You should’ve seen her face. She backed down without saying another word. Of course I didn’t tell her that my diagnosis was 11 years ago, and that since I never had to undergo chemotherapy I never lost my hair, but the self-righteous old biddy deserved a bit of a comeuppance. No regrets.

Peace, people

It’s My Name; I’ll Pronounce it Anyway I Like

When I was a child, a teacher once told my elementary class something that kind of blew my mind. We were discussing spelling rules (i before e except after c, or when sounding like ‘ay’ as in neighbor and weigh) and someone mentioned that her uncle had a name that broke the rule. The teacher then said that proper names don’t have to follow any rules–that one’s name could be spelled “B-O-B” but pronounced “Methuselah” if the person so desired.

Since at that age I wasn’t particularly fond of my given name of “Leslie,” I was intrigued by this revelation. Perhaps I could insist that my name was actually Cynthia or Elizabeth or Kimberly or anything more feminine sounding than Leslie. Well, no one was on board with that, so I just settled for being plain old Leslie.

I do pronounce my name with a soft “s” sound rather than with a “z” sound as many Leslies do. Once a girl who shared my name but used the “z” sound told me that the “s” sound was for males named Leslie, while girls used the “z.” She told me my name’s pronunciation was masculine. I disagreed, so I slugged her.

Just kidding. I politely disagreed with her and went on my way, mentally punching her with gusto. She was rather obnoxious, after all.

My mom gave me the lovely, feminine middle name of D’Aun, (pronounced Dee Awn) though. In fact, she settled on it way before coming up with my first name. Apparently, her best friend at the time had named her daughter, D’Aun, and Mom loved it so much that she wanted to give that name to her firstborn daughter. However, since she didn’t want to copy her friend, she used it as my middle moniker.

For awhile after my birth I really didn’t have a first name, but my Nannie (Mom’s mom) had recently read Giant by Edna Ferber, in which the main character’s name is Leslie. Everyone involved (except moi, dammit), agreed that Leslie paired well with D’Aun, and it was a done deal.

When I saw the film, Giant, I was super stoked because finally a lovely, feminine woman (Elizabeth Taylor) would answer to my name! Surely I’d then be able to embrace this designation. My hopes were dashed when the pronunciation chosen by the filmmakers was “Lezlie.”

Lately I’ve been taking an informal poll of women sharing my name. So far, it’s about 50/50. I’m not inclined to punch the “z” aficionados anymore, but they shouldn’t make any assumptions about my femininity based on an s.

Do you know any Leslies? Which is it, z or s?

Peaze, people.

Excel Hell

My computer skills are limited, at best, and my ability to run a simple workbook on Excel tests every one of those skills.

I’d like to think that if I’d worked in a field requiring daily use of Excel that I’d not only have become adept at the spreadsheet generating program, but that I’d have EXCELled at it. Using the darned thing once a month to submit an invoice only frustrates me and ends with me calling the computer awful things. My Dell now believes its name is Sonuvabitch, and that’s the nicest of the names I spout.

Thank goodness this month’s invoice is done. Come along now, Sonuvabitch, let’s play Words With Friends and chill for awhile.

Peace, people.

It’s Not Easy Eating Green

Following a plant based diet doesn’t exactly make one mean, but it does make one a bit difficult at meal times. I try so hard not to be all vegan-ish, but my brain now knows that my stomach is going to rebel if I don’t carefully monitor what goes into my mouth.

Our recent vacation to Tennessee was tough in terms of diet. The first two days we were in Bristol I tried to go with the flow and eat like an omnivore. My body did not like me very much; though, and reacted in ways I won’t detail here. I got everything under control by eating strictly vegan for the remainder of the trip. Yes, I might’ve been a tad difficult, but my digestive tract thanked me.

It’s time for me to accept that I operate much better on a plant-based diet. I’m going to stop fighting it and embrace the change.

Peace, people.

Too Tired to Type

Apparently my week of vacation caught up to me today. Studly Doright and I arrived home around eight last evening and crawled into our bed after showers and a snack. He was snoring before I turned the lights out.

Today I ran a couple of errands in Tallahassee, while Studly unloaded the pickup. Now I have a brightly colored hill of dirty clothes awaiting my attention. Laundry will have to wait until tomorrow, though. All I had energy for after sorting the clothes was a nap. It was a beautiful nap, transcending time and space and stinky socks.

I’ll leave you with a couple of photos I took of motorcyclists leaving the lunch gathering at our rally in Bristol, Tennessee. I might’ve ridden a couple in my dreams this afternoon.

Peace, people!

The Need for Speed

Are you an adrenaline junkie? Do you feel the need, the need for speed?

Not me. I’m the opposite of an adrenaline junkie, but not quite a couch potato. I don’t feel the constant need for speed, but I do enjoy having a bit of horsepower at my beck and call when the situation requires a burst of power.

I like cars that can get up to interstate highway speeds well before the entrance lane ends, but that don’t always feel like they need to be running at the Indy 500. I felt the same way about my motorcycles when I was riding.

After my car was rear ended by a distracted motorist back in November of last year I suffered from a bout of mild PTSD. Certain traffic situations made me flinch, and I couldn’t sleep without having vivid nightmares of being smushed between two vehicles. I sold my motorcycle as a result, knowing that had I been riding it the day of the accident I’d likely have been killed.

So, what’s the point of all this you ask? Well, Studly Doright and I are at a motorcycle rendezvous with some of our favorite people in the whole world. None of us are youngsters anymore. Most of the husbands in our group are still active riders, while some of the women, like me, have either stopped riding altogether, or have become passengers on their husbands’ bikes.

I’m okay being a non-rider most of the time, but when I hear the sounds of sport bikes my heart skips a beat and I start wondering if I gave up on being a rider too soon.

Yesterday I helped at one of the events at the rendezvous, pointing out the direction bikers needed to go for lunch. And I have to say I was eyeing bikes with a bit of desire. There was one BMW that stole my heart, made my pulse beat a little faster. All I’d have to do is mention to Studly that I was ready to ride again and I’d have a new bike within a week. So, I won’t, and I trust my readers won’t breathe a word of this to him. Shhhh.

Peace, people!